


Hook-ups, Hang-ups and Hangovers

by Legendaerie



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drinking, Hook-Up, M/M, Non explicit Mentions of Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 04:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9960749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: (alternately titled: my mouth tastes like booze and bad decisions)Washington has some casual sex with a stranger. It does not go entirely as planned.





	

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on [tumblr](https://lostlegendaerie.tumblr.com/post/157504064763/my-mouth-tastes-like-booze-and-bad-decisions), and then i got excited about the freelancers as a D&D group so i might continue it at a later date. Cleaned it up in a few places, at least.

It takes Washington a good minute of lazy wakefulness, crushed under the gentle weight of layers of blankets and pleasant fading dreams, to notice he’s not alone. He blinks slowly, soaking in the welcome heat of another slumbering body, hiding from the cold March weather. A few seconds after that, and a deep inhale of sheets that smell like sex and unfamiliar detergent, and he realizes it’s not even his own bed.

That gets him up, peeling the blankets away on his side of the bed. It's a decent place; a little bigger than Washington's shared apartment but not as clean, peppered with a few days worth of laundry. Beside him, his bed mate and host - whose name he has completely forgotten - snores on, deep in the sleep of the utterly exhausted. The rise and fall of his chest is hypnotic, and Washington glares at him in open envy as his head starts to throb.

Well. At least the guy he went home with is cute, with his short densely curled black hair and the tiny spot of drool on his pillow. Wash remembers flashes of that mouth all over him - his lips, his neck, his cock - and heads to the bathroom to relieve his bladder and his curiosity.

Sure enough, there’s a mess of hickeys all over his shoulders, a couple maybe at his hips that could be bruises as he pulls on last night’s clothes. As he slinks downstairs, tender in places that ache with each step, Washington remembers the night in reverse. They’d fucked properly in the bed with Washington’s face in the pillows, tangled together at the foot of the stairs with greedy hands and mouths. First orgasm just inside the front door, with his host’s hand over Washington’s mouth urging him to be quiet, otherwise they’ll wake–

The sight of a child seated calmly at the kitchen table is a more effective mood killer than a bucket of ice water. Washington freezes to the spot. The clink of metal spoon against plastic cereal bowl is deafening in the silence of an early Sunday morning,k and he hardly dares to breathe.

His eyes jerk to each of the windows in turn, looking for one that wouldn’t alert the kid - who’s in that weird indeterminate stage between toddler and teenager that makes it hard for Washington to age - to his presence. Or maybe he could slink back upstairs, try to leave some kind of ‘thanks for the sex’ note and go out the second story? He might be able to shimmy down the porch drainpipe, isn’t that something they do in–

“Hi,” says the kid, looking up from his cereal box with serious, dark brown eyes. His skin is lighter than the man still asleep, but they have the same broad nose and bouncy hair.

Washington distantly remembers gently tugging on his host’s last night, and that the name he’d gasped when they’d first started fooling around in the bar’s bathroom had started with a T. “Good morning,” he rasps from a sore and well-used throat, and comes down the last two stairs.

It’s a nice kitchen, with a few dishes on the counters and a half-empty bag of groceries by the microwave. Most of the light comes in through the windows, the mini-blinds raised nearly all the way, and the ambient glow of a cloudy morning softens the bright red of the tile floor. Washington pads across it as though it was hot and uncomfortable to the touch, trying to find the cabinet with the cups without touching anything. The sooner he can wash the lingering taste of sleep, rum and come out of his mouth, the better.

“Daddy got fruity cereal as a treat if you want some,” says the boy at the counter. Washington thinks back to the four years in college he spent living on off-brand sugary cereals and almost pukes into the sink.

“Thanks, but I’m just gonna get some water.”

“That one.”

Washington pauses, hand on this third cabinet, and looks over his shoulder. The boy is pointing. Washington moves his hand. The boy points again, harder this time. He takes a step to the left. The boy nods.

Washington has to stretch to reach the cups on the top shelf, and there’s a clatter when he closes the cabinet that suggests there will be problems later, but problems later are not problems now. “Do you have bread?”

“Fridge.”

He puts a slice in the toaster and fiddles with the dial as long as possible. He’s not good with kids. I mean, he’s met kids before. Used to be one not that long ago, but he was an only child who moved around a lot. Being good with kids is a North thing, who has more capability in one bicep then half of their grad student D&D group.

Fuck them, while he’s thinking about it. Fuck their encouragement to flirt back, and especially fuck York’s penchant for tequila shots. Great sex with a stranger is not worth dealing with a hangover and a child at the same time. One is enough to take all of his energy, but both at once is enough to make him shut down.

“So,” he says, taking a seat as his head swims and biting into dry toast, “are you in school?”

The kid takes a sip of cereal milk and holds up two fingers.

“Second grade, huh?” Washington fights for something interesting to add and just settles for another bite of toast. Should he introduce himself? Ask for the kid’s name? He’s never had a one night stand with someone who had a kid before. 

He gets out his phone to text North for help when he sees the stream of text messages from his friends - most of them congratulatory and crude, with way too many eggplant emoji - and resolves he would rather die than ask them for anything, ever. Washington is on his own.

He finishes his toast and buries his face in his arms. There’s an occasional slurp as the kid finishes his breakfast, plus the muffled sound of traffic outside, but both are drowned out by the pounding ache in his head. In a minute, he’ll go upstairs and raid the medicine cabinet for painkillers.

“I like you,” the kid says. Washington raises his head. “You’re quiet.”

“Uh,” Washington replies, face heating as he recalls all the times last night he was told he was the opposite, “thanks.”

The kid drinks the last of his cereal milk and starts to clean up - dishes in the dishwasher, half-gallon of milk in the fridge, dragging a chair to stand on as he puts the cereal away and then scooting it back.

“I wanna play Smash,” he declares in Washington’s direction, hands still on the back of the chair.

“Ok?”

“You have to help.”

“Um. All right. Can I use the bathroom first?” he asks, and gets a point in response. He closes the door and flips through the cabinets, finds a bottle of Tylenol and takes three. The kid is waiting for him at the end of the hall, and leads him into a den covered in sports paraphernalia.

The kid boots up the game on his own and hands Washington a controller. “I get Samus,” he says, in the most dramatically serious tone Washington has ever heard from a person who’s barely over four feet tall.

Washington picks Link because he’s predicable as hell, and even with a hangover manages to soundly beat Samus and two CPUs in under three minutes. He peeks a look at the kid and sees the start of a pout.

“You’re good,” the kid says.

Washington thumbs a hickey on his collarbone. “Sorry. I’m really bad at Mario Kart?” he offers.

“Can we switch to Mario Kart?”

“Sure.”

True to his word, Washington is awful without even trying. The first time he mutters “son of  bitch!” when Bowser bumps Koopa off the road and into the lava he shoots the kid a horrified look, but he’s too focused on drifting around the turn as King Boo so Washington doesn’t make a big deal about it. Four races in, just as Washington is about to pass Peach for fifth place, he hears footsteps on the stairs and freezes.

“Oh,” says the guy who wrung three noisy orgasms out of Washington last night, as he steps into the kitchen wearing nothing but pajama pants, “hey Wash.”

“Hey,” he replies, and feels even worse for forgetting his name. He jerks his eyes back to the TV and glue them there.

“Hi daddy.”

“Hey, Junior,” and the warmth in his voice is a sudden and blinding as sunshine. There's a clatter of cabinets - including a cascade of plastic as the cups he'd dislodged come tumbling down - and Washington tightens his grip on the controller, refusing to turn.

At length, he hears footsteps approaching the couch from behind, and the cushions buckle as the man crosses his arms and leans on the back between the players.

“You keeping an eye on this guy for me?” he asks. Washington flounders for an answer, but the kid beats him to it.

“Yep.”

“Junior, huh?” Washington hazards as his character swerves off the road and into the grass. “Named after you?”

Apparently he’s not subtle enough, because after a beat his host snorts. “You forgot my name?”

“I’m sorry–”

“You knew it pretty well last night. Or at least I thought you did. Then again, you coulda been screaming fuck, so–”

Washington forgets about the race entirely and throws a horrified glance at his host, then at Junior, and back again. The dad seems baffled, and also even prettier up close now that he's awake. 

“What? He knows why you’re here. Don’t you?””

“Yeah,” says Junior, crossing the finish line and raising one fist to be bumped. “Get it, daddy.”

“Unbelievable,” Washington mutters, and doesn’t put up a fight when his forgotten controller is picked up. “Sorry again.”

“It’s fine. Lavernius Tucker. My kid calls me Daddy, my ex-girlfriend doesn’t call at all, and you can call me Tucker. Nice to meet you,” he says, getting all up in Washington’s personal space as he sits on the edge of the couch, evidently well versed in this game. "Let's see if we can at _least_ beat Wario."

Tucker manages to squeeze out a sixth place after a minute or so of play, leaning between them over the back of the couch. Washington coughs, feeling the grime of sweat clinging to his skin. “I should, uh. Head home. Shower.”

“Need a ride?”

“No, I’ll just call a cab or something.” He looks at where he is on the map and does a double take. “Or walk. Wow. You’re pretty close to my place.” Twenty minutes and a couple road crossings is nothing to a man who vehemently hates the bus system.

Tucker slides into Washington’s spot the moment he gets up, and throws him a grin over the back of the couch as Junior selects the next track.

“Well, if you get lonely tonight, I don’t have class until 11am tomorrow. Feel free to come over, and I’ll come under you.”

Even with the worst of his headache gone, Washington really doesn’t have a reply for that, so he just backs out the door with an inarticulate, muttered goodbye and starts to head down the street. He’s got a long walk of shame ahead of him, in 45 degree weather, and class bright and early tomorrow. And his ass is still a little sore.


End file.
